


I know you won't remember in the morning (when I speak my mind)

by n_g_m_3692



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (it's truly just me wanting them to talk about things dsjkfsl), Angst, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Gap Filler, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, more specific content warnings will be posted in the end notes of each chapter, nothing bad happens in here that doesn't happen in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_g_m_3692/pseuds/n_g_m_3692
Summary: A collection of 3am conversations.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	1. Mickey

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I was originally gonna post this as a one-shot, but I ended up liking it better as individual chapters so here we are. The POV is going to be alternating as we look at different stages of Ian and Mickey's relationship through the lens of late night conversations (where inhibitions are lowered and things feel a little safer). The first one takes place during the summer of season 2.

“Isn’t your family gonna be looking for you?” he asked quietly, faking nonchalance.

He knew he was fucking up. That he shouldn’t be doing this—couldn’t be doing this. But here he was, sitting on the roof of an abandoned building with Ian fucking Gallagher, watching him slowly drag a cigarette and stare out at the flickering lights of the city. He traced his eyes from the soft curls of his hair down the sharp line of his nose, allowing them to linger on his lips. The smoke curled from his mouth as he exhaled, slowly disappearing into the dark sky.

Mickey thought it might have looked beautiful if everything didn’t look ugly when compared to Ian.

“Nah,” Ian shook his head, and Mickey saw something sad flash in his eyes. “We’ve got time.”

Mickey reached for the cigarette and Ian snatched it out of his reach, holding it high over his head. “Seriously, Gallagher, can I just have a fucking hit?” he asked, already sick of whatever game Ian was playing.

Ian grinned dangerously and held it further out of his reach. “It’s my last one. Why should I give it to you?”

“I don’t know…” Mickey sarcastically tapped his chin. “Maybe because I just let you fuck me for like 3 hours straight."

Ian cocked his head, like he was considering Mickey’s argument and Mickey _didn’t_ find it adorable. He didn’t.“So I should do you two favors today?”

Mickey clenched his jaw to keep the laugh that was threatening to erupt out of him right where it belonged. Ian did _not_ deserve that satisfaction. “Fuck off,” he said instead, reaching for the cigarette again.

In his desperation to keep Mickey away from it, Ian fell onto his back, still keeping his arm extended far above his head. Mickey saw an opportunity and took it, crawling towards Ian and pinning his elbows under his knees in a flash while Ian squirmed below him, still trying to keep the cigarette away from him.

“What’cha gonna do now, tough guy?” he asked teasingly, leaning over to pluck the cigarette from Ian’s fingers. “Guess all that army bullshit ain’t doing much for you.” Ian didn’t say anything so he took a long drag, moving his knees from Ian’s arms to rest at his sides and sitting down on his chest.

Once the last of the smoke had fallen lazily from his mouth, he looked down to taunt Ian some more. His words died on his tongue when he saw Ian staring up at him with _that_ expression on his face. The one that meant he was wanting things he couldn’t have. He took in their position—him straddling Ian, Ian’s hands brushing his thighs. Ian’s slightly parted lips and sex-mussed hair. _Fuck._

He could kiss him, he realized. He knew it was what Ian wanted. He could lean down and kiss the color off his lips and lick that stupid expression right off his face. He wondered what he would taste like. Nicotine and some girly chapstick, probably. He could find out so easily and— here’s what scared him— he wanted to. He wanted more than anything to lean down and press their lips together— to finally answer all the questions that overwhelmed his head every time he looked at Ian.

Ian shifted underneath him, angling his head up slightly and softening his gaze. He was looking at him like he could deliver the world on a platter— drag the moon out of the sky or whatever else other people with much more freedom than him would say about a lover. Looking at Ian like this, on an empty rooftop under the safety of the stars he started to wonder if he could.

Mickey parted his lips too, about to do the stupidest fucking thing he could imagine when— _No._

He shot up, pushing himself off of Ian like he had been burned. What the fuck was he about to do? Sex and cigarettes. That’s what this was about. Nothing more. No kissing, no long, lingering glances, no hand holding and _definitely no fucking kissing_. That’s all this could be unless he had a death wish. That’s all he _wanted_ it to be, he reminded himself.

He stocked towards the stairs, cracking his knuckles and biting his lip so hard it bled. He was just starting to figure out a way to get out of town for a few days when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whipped around in annoyance, but any sharp retort he had died on his tongue when he saw Ian’s big, desperate eyes looking back at him.

“Don’t leave, Mick,” he begged in a low, almost inaudible voice.

He glanced around, worrying his lip as he considered his options. He knew he should leave. Who gave a shit about Gallagher or his pretty lips or his sad eyes or his fucking games? Not him. Definitely not him. That’s what he told himself over and over again while he tried to make his feet move.

Apparently he’s a shit liar, because he eventually conceded, nodding tightly and shrugging Ian’s hand off his shoulder. When had he become so fucking soft that all Ian had to was bat his eyes at him and he would do anything he asked? Sometime between his last stint in juvie and this summer, he figured, internally cussing himself out. Promising that this would _never_ happen again.

“Fine,” he said gruffly as they walked back to their spot on the roof. “But any more funny business and I’m out.”

Ian nodded and sat down crosslegged, staring up at him with that same dopey expression.

“I mean it, Gallagher,” he warned, sitting down opposite Ian. “You know what this is.”

Ian just smiled sadly, doing a terrible job of masking his disappointment, and passed him the cigarette he must have dropped in his fervor. Mickey wondered if Ian felt that same jolt of electricity that he did when their fingers brushed.

He was so fucked.


	2. Ian

Neither of them knew what to do. Not with their bodies, not with their voices, not with their feelings. The credits had been rolling for too long now, and they were both staring straight ahead, pretending that they really gave a shit about the hundreds of names flashing before their eyes.

They didn’t do this. Ian couldn’t even remember the last time they had been alone with each other for more than 20 minutes without going straight to fucking. Is that what Mickey wanted to do? Did he invite Ian over just so they could fuck in peace? Was he just sick of alleyways and storerooms? Or was it more? Did the kiss actually mean something or was it just a way to keep Ian around as a convenient fuck buddy? Ian felt like he was going insane as every single interaction he and Mickey had ever had ran through his brain and he analyzed each one. Poking and prodding them like they had anything to reveal other than the fact that Mickey was very, very closed off. The most beautiful puzzle he’d ever seen.

Once Ian couldn’t take it anymore he quickly reached for the remote—only to find out that Mickey had done the same. He tilted his head slightly and watched Mickey out of the corner of his eye. He was frowning, doing that adorable thing where he chews on his lip and flashes his eyes. Ian chuckled and slid the remote out from under his hand, already missing the feeling of Mickey’s hand on his. He clicked the TV off and stood up, moving in front of Mickey and staring down at him.

“So,” he started, sounding much more confident than he was. “Am I sleeping on the couch or…” he trailed off as Mickey clenched his jaw.

He didn’t speak for a long time, and Ian was about to laugh it off, say he’s fine with staying on the couch. Anything to keep Mickey from kicking him out. But Mickey’s face finally broke into a small smile and he stood up, staring into Ian’s eyes. He looked different like this. Almost open, maybe inviting. Definitely breathtaking.

Under his gaze, Ian felt brave, and maybe a little stupid. He had to be both to lean down and kiss Mickey like he did. At first Mickey recoiled, and Ian prepared himself for what always came next when he tried something like that. Before he could even get his apology out there were soft lips on his again and he melted into the kiss on instinct.

For the first time all night his brain shut off and he allowed himself to _be_. He felt everything. Mickey’s hands in his hair, Mickey’s nose bumping into his, the broad plains of Mickey’s back. _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey._

He pushed Mickey back on the couch and slowly worked his way down to his neck, tracing every single line and scar on his face. Mickey didn’t say anything, but when Ian looked up at him he nodded slightly, eyes wide and lips kiss-bruised.

They discovered each other over and over, with shaky hands and hungry mouths. They fell into a rhythm, softer than anything they’d ever done before. There was no desperation, no fear that they would be caught if they didn’t work fast enough. Just them.

Right before Ian slipped his pants down Mickey stopped him, gasping softly and grabbing his wrists.

“Bed,” he muttered.

Ian couldn’t help but smile at the blush spreading across his face. He leaned down and kissed him again before getting up. He grabbed Mickey’s hand and pulled him up too, squeezing a little tighter than was strictly necessary. Mickey held onto it the whole way to the bedroom, only letting go when he had to.

**

They were both panting, staring at each other across the expanse of bed between them. Ian was glad he could barely breathe because that meant he couldn’t speak. He knew if he opened his mouth something irreversible would come out.

 _I love you,_ he would say, like the fool he is.

He knew what would happen if he did. Mickey’s face would fall into a scowl and words that he didn’t mean would shoot angrily from his mouth—doing anything to avoid being loved. Saying what he wanted to say would mean the end of him and Mickey. Ian knew he couldn’t deal with that. Being away from Mickey was hard. Even the first time when they’d only been together for a matter of weeks. He saw him through the glass and was overwhelmed by the desire to just touch him and be with him in any and every way. It hadn’t changed since then. The lines just kept blurring.

Back then he could chalk it up to lust, maybe just a sad wish to be noticed by somebody. But that excuse held no weight anymore and he knew it. He loved Mickey. Every single thing about him. His harsh words and soft hands. The way he looked at Ian when he thought he wasn’t watching. His bright eyes and secret smiles.

 _Fuck, I’m in love with Mickey MIlkovich,_ he thought. Any other night the thought might have scared him, but something about laying next to Mickey in a real bed, something about remembering the feeling of Mickey’s hand in his and the darkness of the room made it seem okay. He smiled against his will, snapping his mouth shut when Mickey cocked an eyebrow.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?”

Ian just shook his head, leaning forward and catching Mickey in a kiss. Mickey followed him as he pulled away, pouting when Ian pushed him back.

Ian laughed at his dramatics and scooted himself closer to Mickey. He brought his hand up to Mickey’s cheek and stared at him again, tracing his eyes over every inch of his face. Mickey rolled his eyes, but didn’t pull away. Instead he inched closer to Ian too, laying a hand on his shoulder as if it had fallen there completely accidentally. Ian shifted his leg to lay between Mickeys, keeping careful eye contact the whole time.

They went on like that for a while, playing the game of push-and-pull that had defined them since the moment they met. A hand here, a foot there, soft giggles floating up and laying over them like another blanket. They were testing the waters carefully, like they were scared of making ripples. Ian wanted nothing more than to fully jump in with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched—to feel the water splash against him as he plunged into the depths. But he’d spent enough time with Mickey to know that that’s a recipe for disaster. So he followed Mickey’s lead until they ended up a tangled mess, with Mickey half laying on Ian’s chest with Ian’s arms wrapped around him and their legs entwined below.

They didn’t say a word, both too scared to break the precarious peace they had managed to find with each other. Ian stared up at the ceiling, listening to Mickey’s breathing even out, letting his smell overwhelm his senses.

Long after Ian thought Mickey was asleep he was startled by his voice.

“Do people really get to do this?” Mickey asked softly, voice muffled against Ian’s chest.

“Do what?”

“This,” Mickey repeated. “Do people get to do this?’

Ian understood. Do people get to do the movies and the kissing and the hand holding and the…

“ _Cuddling_?,” Ian asked, drawing out the word and tickling Mickey slightly. Mickey squirmed in his arms.

“Fuck off, Gallagher. I can still kick you out,” he said. But he made no effort to move, letting Ian hold him flush against his chest.

“I think they do, Mick,” he answered, thinking about Lip and Karen and the way they used to kiss in public, or Steve and Fiona and how he was never scared to let his hands wander down her back. How she was never scared to smile at him in that way people only do when they’re in love.

“Bastards.”

Ian chuckled and ran his finger up and down Mickey’s spine. Mickey settled deeper into his chest, letting out slow deep breaths. Ian thought he felt something wet fall from Mickey’s face and slide down to his stomach. He didn’t say anything.


	3. Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

He was torturing himself and he knew it. He wished he could stop thinking about it but he couldn’t.

 _Could you at least look at me?_ Ian’s voice echoing around the abandoned building, washing over him and reminding him of what it felt like to be alive. Reminding him of _before._

 _So that’s it— we’re over?_ His footsteps behind him—his hands shaking as he reached out for him.

 _You love me._ Tears in his eyes, all the light completely sapped out of them.

 _Feel better now? Feel like a man?_ His bloody, bruised face, broken in a way a face so beautiful should never be broken.

 _If you give half a shit about me._ The smell of booze on his breath, the quiver in his voice.

 _I’m leaving town._ The hard set of his jaw, the sharp lines of his body.

 _Don’t what?_ The desperation brewing just below the surface, the small smile when he accepted that he would never get what he wanted.

His stubbornness, his determination, his idealism— everything Mickey loved about him— all turned against him.

He stopped in his tracks. _Loved?_

 _Yeah,_ he admitted, _loved._ He had tried to talk himself out of it too many times before—it never worked and he was sick of trying. He loved him. But that didn’t matter because he had a wife and a kid on the way and the only thing he had to hold onto was a crumpled picture. He pulled it out of his pocket when he reached the dugouts, trying to pretend like it was anything other than a soft memory and a torture device all wrapped in one.

He must have been a little too drunk, or a little too broken, because he allowed himself to really cry for the first time since he was a kid, weeping in his mothers lap the first time Terry had hit him. The sobs rolled out of him in ugly, loud huffs and the tears splattered onto the photo he was holding in his bruised hands, making it look like Ian was crying too.

The thought made him cry harder, until he was a crumpled mess on the hard concrete.—cold and alone like he always knew he would end up.

Fuck, he missed Ian. More than he’d ever missed anything or anyone. He missed everything they could have had together if he hadn’t invited him over that day. Everything that he could have been if he knew how to let himself be loved way back when this thing first started. And he missed _him_. His bright hair and brighter eyes. His hands on his body, his lips against his. His ability to make him laugh and cry and experience everything he thought only happened in movies.

He was ruined, he decided as the concrete dug roughly into his arms. Gallagher ruined him—turned him into some soft fuck who cries about the one that got away. And what made him the most upset was that he couldn’t even find it in his heart to be mad at him.

He loved him too damn much to ever be mad at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings:  
> Contains references to 3x06 and everything that happened afterwards


	4. Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

“So what ever happened to that boy you were hanging out with?” Monica asked him, breaking through the haze in his mind.

He didn’t know where they were. He vaguely remembered Monica saying something about a friend of a friend of a friend who could score stuff for them. He didn’t remember much after that. But now they were here, in somebody’s basement, leaning against a hard wall and watching water drip into a muddy puddle on the floor like it was the most interesting thing either of them had ever seen.

He knew he was on something. Oxy? Maybe an 8-ball? _Fuck_ , he couldn’t remember. Could be H for all he knew. What he did know was that he didn’t like it. The world was too blurry and his hands were too cold.

“Sweetie,” Monica asked again, leaning over to cup his cheeks. “The boy. What was his name? Mike?”

Mike? Who the fuck is Mike? He racked his addled brain for context, but found nothing. Just mud and blurriness and a distant feeling of nausea.

“What?” he asked, cringing as his voice came out scratchy and broken. When was the last time he spoke? It could have been days, or weeks. Maybe it had been a year. He didn’t have to do much talking at the club. He didn’t have to do much of anything. The men did most of the work for him. His job was just to stay numb so he couldn’t think too much about what was happening to him.

He had gotten really good at staying numb.

What were they talking about again?

“That boyfriend of yours. The one who went to juvie,” Monica repeated. Had he said that last part out loud?

“Yeah you did!” she laughed, throwing her head back and almost falling backwards. “Fuck this stuff is good.”

Recognition sparked in his brain, but it was like lighting damp wood. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried, thinking harder about this than he had about anything in a long time. _Boyfriend. Juvie._ And then— Oh. _Oh_

“Mickey,” he said softly, feeling a smile creep up his face.

“Yeah, baby, that was his name!” Monica said, grabbing a half-empty beer bottle from the floor next to them. “What ever happened to you two?”

Ian shook his head and grabbed the bottle from her, finishing it in one gulp. It burned.

“It all got fucked up. Everything got fucked up.” he slurred, feeling his head get too heavy and his eyelids start to droop. “He got _married_. To some _whore_ who’s having his _baby.”_ He punctuated each word by slamming the bottle against the ground, smiling when it finally broke into a million pieces.

He looked up and found Monica staring at a point just beyond his head and realized that she wasn’t really there anymore. Still he kept going, unable to stop himself once the floodgates were opened.

“We were finally getting somewhere!” he screamed. “I— I think he _loved_ me.” he cut himself off, taking a few breaths and closing his eyes, remembering Mickey for the first time since everything had gone to hell. Soft hands and tattooed knuckled. Gentle lips. Secret smiles. “I loved him,” he said softly, watching the world slowly fade to black. “I— I love him.”

He felt his body slump and registered the feeling of something sharp against his cheek when his head hit the floor. It didn’t really hurt, even though he felt like it should. Good thing, he figured. He wouldn’t be able to move if he wanted to. The last thing he thought before falling into a haze that couldn’t even be classified as sleep was _Mickey._

Maybe he wasn’t as numb as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> Ian is (unsafely) taking drugs in this chapter and it contains references to his time at the club and the grooming that happened to him there.


	5. Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

“My mom tried to kill herself, you know?” Ian said one night, hours after they had gone to bed.

Mickey turned himself around so he was facing him, bringing his arms to rest on Ian, like they were wrapped in a loose hug. The abrupt question caused Mickey’s breath to catch in his throat so he hummed in response.

“Did Mandy tell you?” Ian asked as he stared at him with cloudy eyes.

Mickey nodded shortly, remembering how she mentioned it once when she visited him in juvie. She said it off-hand— _some fucked up shit went down with the Gallaghers—_ and Mickey didn’t press the subject. He thought about it long after she left.

He tried desperately to conjure up an image of Monica, but all that he could come up with was a blurry woman holding a grinning red-headed child’s hand. Ian barely talked about her back then, and when he did it was tinged with so many things Mickey didn’t know what to make of it. At first he would seem angry, like he never wanted to see her again, then everything would shift and tears would erupt in his eyes. Finally, he would just get cold, setting his jaw and changing the subject. Mickey never asked about her, and after that Thanksgiving, Ian never talked about her. Until tonight, that is.

“She did it right in the kitchen,” he said in a small, broken voice. “I was sitting next to her at dinner and I asked if she was okay. She— She said she was!” His voice was rising in pitch and he was shaking in Mickeys arms. Mickey squeezed him tighter as he spoke, like he could somehow absorb all of the extra energy that was spilling out of Ian. “And then she went to the kitchen and slit her fucking wrists!” He ended with a yell before deflating and going completely limp in Mickeys arms.

Mickey tilted Ian’s chin up with his thumb, forcing Ian to hold eye contact even when he tried to look away. “Why are you telling me this?”

Ian huffed and sat up and Mickey was worried he was gonna blow up like he always seemed to these days. When he caught sight of the look on Mickey’s face he calmed down, and the corners of his mouth turned up. “Never mind.”

“Wait— No, we can talk about it if you want I just—” Mickey stumbled over his words, causing Ian’s smile to widen even more.

Mickey’s heart cracked, just a little bit, at the sight of Ians shining eyes and too-big smile. He had been himself then, if only for a minute.

“I’m tired of talking.” Ian swooped down and kissed him, cutting off anything else Mickey had to say. Mickey kissed him back, letting his hands glide over Ian’s body while Ian did the same. He did his best to ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him something was very, _very,_ wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> Ian talks about Monica's suicide attempt.


	6. Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

“I feel like I’m floating,” he said softly.

He had heard Mickey come in and sit on the edge of their bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around.

“Floating?” Mickey repeated curiously, shifting slightly and causing the covers to slip further off Ian’s body. Ian was freezing, and he could feel the goosebumps lining his back. All he had to do was pull the covers up— a simple, easy thing to do. _Just move your arms, grab the covers, and pull them up,_ he screamed, wincing as the words echoed in his brain and bounced against his skull. He tried. He told himself over and over again to do it. What kind of person can’t even move some blankets? _A worthless one,_ he answered _._

He was dead weight. An anchor. A dangerous thing that would drag everybody around him down into the dark depths of the ocean until they all suffocated. Then all that would be left was him. Cold and alone. Surrounded by the corpses of the people he had once loved. God, he wished he could just pull up the covers. It was so cold out in the middle of the ocean.

“Ian,” Mickey’s voice startled him, pulling him out of the dark recesses of his mind. “What were you saying?”

“I don’t remember,” he said honestly. What _was_ he saying?

“You said you were floating.” Mickey’s voice was a little too kind and a little too scared, like Ian was some lost, feral animal who needed to be coaxed back in his cage. Ian hated him for it. He didn’t need kind. He didn’t _deserve_ kind. He needed somebody to kick his ass and tell him to get his shit together. And Mickey deserved somebody who could keep up with him. Somebody to make him smile and laugh in that way that makes his eyes crinkle up and his shoulders shake. Mickey deserved somebody who could love him.

Ian used to love him, he remembered. Maybe he still did. If he did it was buried somewhere deep, deep inside. Covered in layers upon layers of too-heavy blankets and broken promises and corpses. He wouldn’t even know where to start looking for it.

“Okay,” Mickey whispered, after Ian had gone too long without saying anything. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

Sleep. That’s another thing he didn’t know how to do anymore. All he knew how to do was pretend. Pretend to be okay. Pretend to be tired. Pretend to sleep. Pretend to care. Pretend to love. _Somebody’s gonna see through it eventually_ , he realized.

He didn’t know if the thought bothered him all that much. It used to. It used to scare the shit out of him and make him so, _so,_ desperate to hide the terrifying parts of himself. Now they’re all laid bare for everyone to see. Now they could all dissect him like some grotesque,failed experiment. And he’d lay there and take it. It was too much work to move.

He felt hands on his hips and flinched violently, moving more than he had in days.

“Sorry,” Mickey said as he brought the blankets up to cover his shoulders. “You looked cold.”

Ian didn’t say anything, but he felt a wave of _something_ wash over him. If he didn’t know any better he’d call it love. But that was impossible, so he settled for calling it warmth. He figured it was the next best thing.

Mickey stayed on their bed, not laying down, barely even sitting on it really. Ian could feel his eyes on him. He decided to try talking one more time.

“You can’t let them take me, Mick,” he croaked out, begging Mickey to understand. You can’t let them take me to the place with the yellow walls and the loose clothes and the little pills in paper cups. “I’ll get better, I promise.”

It was a lie but he said it anyway. He hated lying to Mickey. If he was telling the truth he would say that he wasn’t sure he’d ever leave this bed again, that the pillow pressed into his face was starting to feel like a part of him.

“I know you will, Ian,” Mickey said softly, like he didn’t quite believe what he was saying either. “I won’t let them take you. I promise.” He said the last line with conviction— he wasn’t lying then.

Ian wondered if maybe he should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> Ian is in the middle of his first depressive episode in this chapter, and he's having some pretty dark thoughts as a result of that.


	7. Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

He was startled awake by the sound of crying. He groaned and turned towards Ian, lightly slapping his face with his hand.

“Wake up, sleepyface,” he said softly, smiling when Ian just groaned and pushed him away. “Yev’s crying.”

“I can hear him, Mickey. I’m trying to ignore it and you’re not helping,” Ian said sleepily, trying weakly to turn Mickey back around.

“Well somebody’s gotta get him. Svetlana’s working and Mandy’s out.”

“You know,” Ian mumbled, still keeping his eyes closed like he could fall back asleep any second. “You could do it.”

Mickey groaned, turning to lay on his back. There was a sort of unspoken agreement between the two of them that involved Mickey having as little to do with Yev as possible. He knew how Ian felt about the kid, and he’d admit that he didn’t _hate_ the way Ian’s face softened when he held Yev and talked in that sweet voice he only used around kids, but anything beyond that was too much. Some days he would just look at the kid and feel like throwing up. And he knew Ian knew this, even if he never said anything, so these types of things usually ended with Ian sighing and getting up, giving him a kiss on the cheek before leaving to quiet Yev down. But today Ian just nuzzled deeper under the blankets, making a noise that would be adorable if Mickey wasn’t scared half to death.

“Ian,” he tried again. “ _Please_.”

Ian opened his eyes at the sound of the strain in his voice, seeming like he was actually waking up this time. His eyes roamed over Mickey’s face, and Mickey stared back at him, silently begging him to understand. It seemed like Ian found whatever he was looking for because he tightened his jaw and nodded, slowly getting up and clambering over Mickey.

Mickey closed his eyes, letting the relief that he’d avoided another interaction with the kid hit hit him. He didn’t hate the kid— in fact he felt bad for him. He didn’t ask to be born into this mess anymore than Mickey. But that didn’t change the fact that looking at him reminded him of something heinous—something he couldn’t even bring himself to talk about, even with Ian. He figured if he couldn’t talk about it with _Ian,_ the person he trusted more than anybody, it would just never be talked about. Just another locked box in his mind marked _do not open._ And he was fine with that. He was. Or at least he tried really, _really_ hard to be fine with it.

He reminded himself over and over that he just had to be strong. Especially with whatever the fuck was going on with Ian. There simply wasn’t another option. And he held himself to that. But if he would sometimes let a tear slip from his eye while Ian held him at night— if he would sometimes look at Ian and be so overwhelmed with the fear of losing him that he could barely breathe? Well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

Ian came back in then, breaking Mickey out of the introspective hole he was falling into.

“God, that kid has lungs,” he said as he flopped unceremoniously next to him, bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes. “I didn’t think he would ever go back asleep but I just read him some—“

He cut himself off when he saw the look on Mickey’s face. “Shit, I’m sorry, Mick,” he reached forward to wipe a tear off Mickeys cheek. When did that get there? He didn’t even remember crying.

“Fuck,” Mickey chuckled, grabbing Ian’s wrist and pushing it away. “It’s fine. Just tired I think.”

Ian nodded, cautiously putting his hand back on Mickeys cheek, this time just to rub at the space next to his mouth. “Are you sure?”

Mickey looked at him in the dark of the room, taking in his kind eyes and soft expression. Taking in the fact that Ian was laying in the very spot his _wife_ used to sleep. It brought him back to long nights spent laying awake, doing everything he could to keep himself awake in case he accidentally touched her in his sleep.

It had happened only once. He woke up with his foot pressed to the back of her thigh, a whisper of a touch, really. She probably didn’t even feel it. But it was enough to suck the air out of his lungs. Enough to make his head pound and his heart race. He stumbled his way to the bathroom and spent the rest of the night on the floor there, watching his hands shake through blurry eyes.

 _Fuck._ He was crying again. For real this time. No single tear slipping from his eyes, no easily silenced gasps.

He caught sight of Ian’s panicked expression through his water-logged eyelashes, and he would have laughed at the way Ian floundered if it wasn’t so fucking terrifying. He wasn’t meant to be seen like this. He was strong and mean and calculating—everything he had to be to survive. He _didn’t_ cry and he _didn’t_ look to his boyfriend for comfort. Not even when he knew how much better having Ian’s arms around him would make him feel. Not even when he longed for the feeling of Ian’s hands in his hair and his lips brushing against his ear as he whispered sweet-nothings.

He didn’t ask for it. But he got it anyways. Ian pulled himself together, taking a few deep breaths before he grabbed Mickey and enveloped him in his arms. It wasn’t a comfortable position, with his nose smushed into Ian’s chest and his arm bent at an odd angle beneath them, but he didn’t care. It was safe.

He felt his breathing slowly mellow out. The storm in his mind finally calmed as Ian’s voice washed over him. He couldn’t hear what he was saying but the familiar lilt of his voice was enough for him to come back to himself.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I know you love him and— and I know he’s my son and she’s my wife but—“

Ian shushed him, holding him even tighter against his chest. “Shut the fuck up, dumbass. I know.”

Mickey laughed quietly into his chest, finally relaxing and letting his muscles unclench. He felt Ian do the same, and they slowly shifted into a more comfortable position.

“We’re gonna be okay, you know?” he heard Ian say before he drifted off. He just nodded, wondering when he had actually started to believe that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Mickey thinks about both 3x06 (not in graphic detail) and his marriage to Svetlana in this chapter


	8. Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

He woke with his head pounding and his mouth dry.

He reached blindly around in the dark for the gatorade he _knew_ he had on his nightstand. It was right—

It wasn’t there.

Neither was the nightstand.

Instead his hand touched cool metal.

He recoiled and snapped his eyes open, looking aimlessly around the room.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the dark of the room, what he saw made him sick.

Yellow walls. White bedsheets on crude bunkbeds. A little paper cup strewn on the floor.

His eyes caught on something shiny on his arm— the light reflecting off a plastic wristband. He strained his eyes to read the words. _Ian Gallagher—psychotic features—_

He stopped reading after that because _no._ Something was very, very wrong.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He didn’t belong in these yellow clothes or this lying wristband.

He belonged at home with Mickey, safe in their bed.

He slowly got up and moved towards the door, ignoring the pain in his sleep-addled legs. He gripped the handle, pulling it as hard as he could. When it didn’t budge he banged on the door and yelled, hoping someone, _anyone,_ would find him in here and rescue him. Say _of course Mr. Gallagher, there’s been a terrible mistake; let’s get you out of here_ and let him go home.

Somebody pulled the door open and he laughed in triumph. He was free, he was—

There was a sharp pain in his arm.

He slowly sank to the ground. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. Really there were strong arms around him and a man in white clothes hovering above him.

The world faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Ian is in the psych ward in this chapter and he's incredibly confused and scared.


	9. Mickey

They were in Ian’s bed—pushed together in a space that was definitely too small for one person, let alone two. Ian’s head was on his chest with and his arms were tightly wound around him. At some point in the last few weeks they had switched positions and Mickey was the one who held Ian in his sleep. Neither of them mentioned it, but Mickey knew it must mean something.

It had only happened once before, when Ian could barely move. Mickey had sidled into bed with him like normal, waiting for an embrace that never came. He turned around and found Ian staring at the ceiling blankly. The only thing indicating that he was even alive was the slight rise and fall of his chest. Mickey just whispered _come here_ and Ian did, gingerly laying his body on Mickey’s like he would break him if he wasn’t careful. They slept like that for two weeks while they both waited with bated breath for Ian to feel better. Once he did, they switched back like nothing had ever changed. Now, Mickey wondered if Ian would ever hold him while he slept again. He figured it was a sacrifice he was happy to make.

Anything for him.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Mick,” Ian whispered into the dark. Mickey had hoped he was asleep. He needed it. His cheekbones were too pronounced these days and his eyes were too bloodshot. He was still beautiful, but he wasn’t bright like he used to be. Mickey desperately missed the fire that used to burn just under Ian’s skin all the time. Not when it would get too big for Ian to control and swallow him whole— he would never miss that. But when it was _him,_ a happy kid who still had hope despite everything that life had thrown at him. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to miss that, but he did.

“Do what?” he asked, because none of that mattered, and the day he had spent without Ian trying to forget him told him that. He loved every single version of Ian and he was more sure of this then he’d ever been of anything. He hoped that one day he’d be able to say it out loud instead of letting soft kisses and gentle touches do all the talking for him.

Ian shrugged out from under his arm and sat up, staring down at Mickey with tears in his eyes. “This,” he said, gesturing vaguely to himself.

Mickey frowned a little bit, mind working a million miles a minute to catch up with Ian. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, trying to mask his worry in annoyance.

Ian rolled his eyes and started fiddling with the frayed edge of the blanket. Just when Mickey thought he was going to drop the subject like so many others before, he spoke.

“I can’t be like her, Mickey.” He didn’t say it like a statement. He said it like he was begging Mickey for something— for Mickey to save him, maybe. Mickey scoffed. _As if I know the first thing about saving anybody._

But Ian’s eyes met his and he felt an odd sense of surety. “You won’t.”

“How the hell can you know that? I’m more than halfway there already! I went to the psych ward, I flushed my meds, “ he started counting them off on his fingers, and Mickey saw his hand shaking slightly as he did it. “I stole a fucking baby! I—”

He cut himself off with a sigh, letting his hands fall to his lap.

“You what?” Mickey prompted, grabbing Ian’s shaking hand with both of his.

“I hurt you.”

“Oh,” Mickey said as he absentmindedly rubbed circles into Ian’s hand. “You didn’t hurt me, Ian. I was just worried.” _Both times,_ he thought, but he didn’t dare say it out loud. Ian had made it clear that his time on the run was deep in his _do not open_ box.

“Well there you fucking have it!” Ian yanked his hand out of Mickeys grasp and started fidgeting with everything he could reach. “I scared my fucking boyfriend and my whole fucking family thinks I’m dangerous and—”

“Ian would you shut the fuck up!” Mickey grabbed his hands right out of the air and squeezed as tight as he could without hurting him. “I never said any of that. I just wanted you to be fucking safe! And now you are and we’re here so can we just drop it?”

“I wish,” Ian answered miserably. “But this is how it is now. Everything’s fucked up and it’s never gonna be the same.”

Mickey racked his brain for something to say. He couldn’t tell Ian he was wrong. He hated lying to him.

Then he thought of what Ian would say if the roles were reversed. “Why is that a bad thing?”

Ian just looked at him like he was stupid, but he pressed on. “We didn’t used to do this, right?” he reasoned, hoping Ian would understand that by _this_ he meant the hand holding and the kissing and all the gross shit he would have killed him for before.

“That doesn’t make everything else okay,” Ian said slowly, as if Mickey was a particularity dumb kid.

“Can you stop putting fucking words in my mouth?” he snapped. Ian widened his eyes in shock and he took a deep breath, saying his next words as calmly as he could manage. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying… Maybe not _everything_ is fucked up.”

Ian was silent for a second before breaking into a fit of laughter. Mickey slapped his shoulder, suddenly feeling self conscious about his weak attempts at consoling him. “What’s so funny, douchebag?”

When Ian was finally able to talk again, he shook his head saying, “Nothing. I just… Can’t believe _Mickey Milkovich_ is telling me to stay positive and look on the bright side or whatever.”

Mickey looked down, trying and failing to hide the blush creeping up his face. “Shut the fuck up, Gallagher. Last time I try to make you feel better. Next time I’ll tell you to just suck it up.”

“You know what?” Ian asked, leaning forward and nudging Mickey’s cheek with his nose.

“What?”

“I think it was _all_ worth it. Just to hear you say that,” Ian answered with a shit-eating grin.

“Fuck you.” Mickey crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Ian, wondering if he still had any ability at all to intimidate him.

“You don’t scare me, Milkovich,” Ian said as he leaned towards him again. “I know the truth.” He slowly uncrossed Mickeys arms and pushed him back on the bed.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey asked breathlessly, finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than Ian’s lips inches away from his own. “What’s that?”

“That you’re a softie,” Ian answered, catching him in a kiss.

“Am not,” he mumbled against Ian’s lips. “Say that again and I’ll murder you in your sleep.”

Ian just laughed, reaching down to interlace his fingers in Mickey’s. When Mickey didn’t protest he laughed more, and Mickey couldn’t help but join in.

He found himself wishing that they could stay like this forever. Carefree. In love, happy in that way only they can make each other. Some part of him knew that this couldn’t last— good things never seemed to last for him— but he let himself enjoy it nevertheless, smiling up at Ian as he pressed their lips together and brought his body so close to Mickey’s that they might as well have been one.


	10. Ian

He woke up shivering. He rolled over onto his side, reaching out across the expanse of his bed.

“Where are you?” he muttered, blindly feeling around. He was still half-asleep and he absolutely refused to open his eyes unless he had to.

When he found that the bed was empty he snapped his eyes open, calling out “Mickey?”

And then it hit him.

Sammi. _Compared to how he used to be? He’s different._

Monica. _There’s always gonna be people that are gonna try to fix us. And you can never make those people happy— like it breaks their heart just to look at you._

Mickey. _You used to love me—now you don’t even know who I am. You don’t owe me anything._

Mickey. _I love you._

He loves him. Mickey loves him.

In another lifetime he would have killed to hear Mickey say those words to him. He used to spend hours, even days, dreaming about it. About Mickey and a life where they could just _be together—_ with no walls in between them. And he had finally gotten that. Mickey _loved_ him. Mickey wanted to be with him through thick and thin, sickness and health, all that shit.

He wanted to believe it. He really did. He wanted more than anything to be able to say _I love you, too_ and kiss Mickey and remember what it felt like to be _warm._

But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

And now Mickey was gone and it didn’t matter anyway.

He wondered if he’d ever be warm again.


	11. Mickey

“Hey.”

Silence. He strained his ear to see if he could hear Ian’s breathing but the connection was too shitty to pick up on anything other than static.

“Gallagher?” he tried again.

“Hey, Mick,” came a rough voice from the other side of the line. Mickey sucked in a breath, smiling in spite of himself when he heard Ian’s voice.

He sounded tired. Had he always sounded this tired or was this new? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Ian’s face, desperate to not forget what he looked like—even if his last memory of him was a cruel afternoon on the porch.

Ian didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t hang up either, so Mickey took that as a sign of hope. Maybe they could get through this.

“I had my first hearing today,” he said matter-of-factly, doing everything in his power to keep his voice from shaking with fear.

“Yeah,” Ian sighed, and Mickey heard ruffling. He imagined Ian laying back on his headboard, propping his head up on his hand. “I heard.”

For a second Mickey thought he was going to end it there, but finally he spoke, and Mickey could swear that he sounded just as scared as he felt.

“How long?”

Mickey gulped. _Best case scenario,_ his public defender had said before they went into the courtroom, _You get fifteen for attempted murder._ Mickey had just stared at him, fully unable to process the words coming callously from his mouth. Fifteen years?

He would be thirty-four by then. Ian would be thirty-two. He’ll have missed everything.

_Everything._

He didn’t cry in the holding room with his lawyer. He didn’t cry when the judge proved his lawyer right. He didn’t cry when he got back to his cell or when he stared at the bleak wall, trying to imagine spending the next _fifteen_ _years_ in prison.

But he sure as hell cried now. Huddled in the corner of his temporary cell with a shitty cellphone he had scammed from some newbie guard— he cried. It wasn’t loud or all consuming, it didn’t suck the air from his lungs or leave his nose runny and his hands shaky. No, it was quiet, a near-silent funeral for the life he had lost. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he mourned the life they could have had.

“Mickey, what the fuck?” came Ian’s voice. Ian’s voice used to sooth him—it used to make his think things really were going to be okay. But now? Now it made it worse. Because Ian wasn’t whispering in his ear or holding him. Ian was miles away sitting in his bed all alone, listening to him cry like a bitch. “What happened?”

“Fifteen years,” he choked. “Fifteen fucking years.”

Ian made a sound— a quiet, wretched thing filled with so much pain Mickey couldn’t even begin to unpack it all.

He didn’t say anything else. This time his breathing was loud enough and ragged enough for Mickey to hear over the shitty connection.

They sat like that for an eternity before Ian finally spoke, voice laced with an unexpected anger.

“Why the fuck did you do that, Mick?” Mickey didn’t answer, so he went on, becoming more and more frustrated with every word. “Why’d you have to do that? I mean, trying to kill Sammi? That’s insane even for you! Fuck, Mick we could have—”

He cut himself off with a strangled sound, still panting like he’d run a marathon. Mickey perked up at the use of _we._ He wasn’t sure there was a them anymore. “ _We_ could have what?”

Ian let out another sigh. “I meant _you_ could have avoided this.”

“Oh,” he said. _Right._ There wasn’t a them anymore. Ian had made that perfectly fucking clear.

“Well I guess I’m an idiot for wanting to protect you, huh?” he said bitingly,

Ian didn’t say anything but Mickey could practically hear him roll his eyes through the phone.

“Whatever, man,” he spit out, letting faux-anger overtake his heartbreak. “I’m moving to State soon so come visit me there if you want to fuckin’ guilt me more.”

He heard Ian start to say something, but he hung up before he could get it out. He knew he fucked up— and he definitely didn’t need Ian reminding him of it. Even if, deep down, he knew Ian’s anger at him was just as fake as his own. They’d never been able to stay away from each other, not really. They were like— like fucking magnets or something.

But, fuck. Fifteen years is a long time. A lifetime, really.

He had always thought he’d end up like this. People would sneer _locked up or dead by twenty_ , and he believed them. Of course he did. What other options where there for a boy like him? With a family like his? He believed them—even leaning into it and embracing it to keep their comments from piercing his skin.

Until he didn’t. Until he started imagining a life for himself where he could be free of everything that had held him down his whole life. Where he could laugh and cry and be loved. He let Ian fucking Gallagher ruin him and, just like the first time he realized this, he couldn’t even be mad at him for it.

He would let Ian ruin him over and over again, in a thousand different lifetimes and a thousand different ways, just for the opportunity to love him and be loved by him.

Fuck, he missed him. And maybe he was grasping at straws— maybe he just desperately needed hope— but somehow he knew that this wasn’t the end of their story. He’d wait a fuckin’ eternity for Ian—and that stupid, hopeful part of him told him that Ian loved him enough to do the same.


	12. Ian

“Mickey,” he said into the dark van. “Are you awake?”

Beside him, Mickey grumbled in his sleep, burrowing his face deeper into the pillow and pulling Ian’s hands tighter around him. Ian pressed a soft kiss into his neck, remembering how that used to Mickey’s favorite way to wake up. Mickey grumbled again, but this time a small chuckle followed it. Ian smiled, pressing his nose into Mickey’s neck and breathing him in again, marveling at how many memories it brought back.

“Come on,” Ian tried again, gently turning Mickey so he was facing him. “Wake up.”

Finally, Mickey blearily opened his eyes, smiling when he saw Ian’s face next to his on the pillow.

“Can I help you?” he asked in his beautiful, sleep mussed voice. Ian’s breath caught in his throat at the sound. God, he missed waking up next to him.

“You gonna tell me why the fuck you woke me up or are you just gonna stare at me like a creep?”

Ian just shrugged, leaning forward to press their lips together. “I missed you,” he whispered.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I was just sleeping, dumbass.”

 _No I missed_ you _,_ he wanted to say. _I missed you so much I could barely breathe sometimes. I love you and I missed you and I’m sorry for everything._

But somewhere along the line he had become a coward. So instead he kissed Mickey again, taking his time to commit every single moment to memory. He couldn’t help but think that this was a dream, like maybe it would all disappear and he would wake up back in his room. That scared him more than anything had in a long time.

He let himself get lost in Mickey’s hands and Mickey’s lips and Mickey’s voice. And, just like it always had, it made everything else fade away. For a moment, there was no running and no porches and no half-lies said through prison phones.

For a moment it was just them.

**

Later, they found themselves back where they were, staring at each other from opposite ends of the pillow. Sometime during the night Ian’s hand had found Mickey’s and he had brought their entwined hands to rest in between them.

“How was it?” he asked, unsure of whether he really wanted the answer.

“Prison?”

Ian nodded, squeezing Mickey’s hand tighter.

“It’s not like juvie, man, I’ll tell you that much. Food sucks, people suck, guards suck. The whole place just fucking sucks.”

Ian’s chest was tight with guilt and he opened his mouth to say something. An apology, maybe, or an explanation of sorts.

“What about you?” Mickey asked abruptly, like he had somehow noticed the way Ian’s mind was going. _He probably did_ , Ian realized. Mickey always had this way of just _knowing_ when Ian was spiraling, and he always knew how to keep him from going to the places his mind was threatening to send him.

He wondered if anybody would ever know him the way Mickey knew him— if he would ever really know himself without him.

“How was _my_ stint in prison?” Ian teased, giggling when Mickey rolled his eyes and tried (and failed) to flip him off with their linked hands.

“Fuck off. How’s… you know… everything?”

“Everything is…” Ian trailed off, considering his answer. Things were good, right? At least he wasn’t going crazy and running off with babies. At least he wasn’t locked up in some fucking psych ward. He was taking his meds, he had a job, he was… on paper he was great.

“Fine, I guess,” he settled on, and he wasn’t really lying—he would never lie to Mickey— but he knew he wasn’t telling the truth either. 

Mickey didn’t press any further, so Ian didn’t say anything else.

God, he wished he wasn’t such a fucking coward.

In lieu of saying all the things on the tip of his tongue—the things he knew Mickey deserved to hear— he inched closer to Mickey, gently nudging his shoulder with his free hand so he was on his side facing away from him again. He wrapped his arm back around Mickey, keeping their fingers laced the whole time, and settled them back into their usual position.

“You gonna be here when I wake up?” Mickey asked, all confidence gone from his voice.

Ian nodded against the back of his neck. “Yeah, Mick. I’m staying,” he said. He didn’t know whether he meant for the night of forever.

Mickey let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped. Ian did the same, letting himself fully relax for the first time in a year. He felt safe. Happy. In love. _Warm_. Everything he had told himself he would never get to have again.

He wondered how long it would last this time.


	13. Mickey

The bartender said something to him, causing him to lift his head up from where it had been resting in his hands.

“Huh?” he asked, slurring his words slightly and trying to get his bearings.

“¿Que pasa?” she repeated, grabbing his glass and giving him his fifth refill of the night.

Mickey groaned, grabbing the the glass and chugging down the beer to avoid having to hold a conversation with some random lady. He had picked up enough Spanish to get by but he definitely couldn’t hold a conversation. And he _definitely_ didn’t have the vocabulary to explain the mess that was inside his head at the moment. Not that he wanted to, anyway.

He slammed the glass on the counter and gestured to the bartender for another one. “No hablo español,” he said, accentuating his horrible accent and hoping she would back off.

She nodded, refilling his glass again. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

 _Fuck._ Her English was good. There goes his ready-made excuse.

Fuck it, he decided. He’d never see her again. What was the harm? His day was fucking weird enough already.

“I’m trying to make a decision,” he said simply. (He never claimed he was _good_ at sharing.)

She leaned her elbows on the bar, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Her eyes were green. He hadn’t noticed before with the dark atmosphere obscuring most of her face but now— he could see that her eyes were green. Clear green. Just like—

He averted his eyes immediately. That color always did something to him. And he may be trying to open up to some random bartender in some random bar but he sure as hell couldn’t have his brain turn to mush. He knew that’s what would happen if he kept looking at her fucking eyes.

“There’s a person,” he elaborated, mumbling down at the bar. “I’m trying to decide if I should do something for them.”

“Ah,” she said, and Mickey looked up just enough to see a knowing smile creep across her face. “You love this person?”

He groaned again, dropping his head back onto his hands. He knew this was a bad idea.

She laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Mickey couldn’t help but laugh a little too. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I love him.”

Then his mind caught up to him. Shit.

_Him._

He was all but ready to run, hand already searching around for his jacket, when he saw her still looking at him with that easy smile on her face.

“So what’s this thing you want to do for him?” she asked, like Mickey hadn’t said anything. Like he hadn’t just admitted he loved a _guy._ He was long past the hiding and the self-hate and the fear. He had been through too much to put himself in that kind of pain. But that didn’t mean he was in the business of coming out every single kind-hearted bartender he met.

Apparently this was a night of firsts.

“I wanna get him back,” he said, avoiding the part about how that entails rolling on a major cartel and snitching for the first time in his life. Avoiding the part where Ian left him at the border with an envelope full of cash and a broken heart.

“What’s stopping you?”

He chuckled darkly. “What isn’t?”

He mulled it over. Thinking about all the things standing between him and the love of his life, struggling to decide which one to even _start_ with. He landed on the biggest one.

“I don’t know if he’ll want to see me.”

She made a sympathetic noise, casually grabbing his glass and refilling it _again._ “Did things get ugly between you two?”

“No,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t— It’s not _us_ that’s the problem it’s—“ Fuck, he had no idea where to begin with this either.

“Everything else?” she supplied helpfully.

“Yeah,” he mumbled against the rim of his cup. “Everything else.”

“Then why wouldn’t he want to see you?”

Mickey stilled, pausing with his glass half raised and his eyes half closed.

“You love each other, right?”

Mickey slowly lowered his cup, feeling like his chest was going to burst open and his heart was going to fall right into his hands.

Of course they fucking love each other.

The decision wasn’t that hard after all.


	14. Ian

“Where were you gonna go?” Lip asked, gesturing to Ian’s stupid black hair. “I mean did you have a plan or was it more… ‘dye first, ask questions later’?”

Ian laughed, kicking Lip under the table. He took his time with his answer, under the guise of finishing a particularly large bite of ice cream.

“You know where,” he eventually admitted, keeping his eyes trained on the container.

“Mickey,” Lip said, not even bothering to frame it like a question.

“Yeah,” Ian scoffed. “I _didn’t_ have a plan, though. Just find my way to Mexico and hope it worked out from there I guess.”

“Jesus. That is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know, asshole,” Ian said, kicking him again. “I wanted to do it anyways.”

“Why? You that scared of the pokey?” Lip teased, snatching the container away from Ian and digging his spoon in.

“Well _yeah_ but, I just… I miss him, you know?”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud since he got back from his first half-trip to Mexico. But he thought it every day. The days he was lucid at least. Other days he was too preoccupied with grandiose causes and cheering crowds and that urgent need to _go_ to even spare a thought to everything else.

His lucidity had been waning more and more as time went on, and on the days he could recognize that he was almost grateful for it. He couldn’t think about Monica if his mind was filled with maps and plans and manic calls to action. He couldn’t think about Mickey, either. Or how he would never see either of them again. Two of the people he loved most in the world, gone. Just like that.

Now that he was back on his meds and was able to actually _think_ again he felt it all over again. Just as fresh as it was that day at the border.

“Okay but missing him isn’t the issue,” Lip broke through his tragic inner monologue. “How the fuck were you planning on _finding_ him, dumbass? Mexico’s a pretty big place, you know?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “I don’t _know_ what my plan was, okay? I just figured we would find our way back to each other like we always do.”

Lip let out a snort at that and Ian punched him in the arm, smiling when Lip let out a dramatic yelp. “Shut up! I didn’t say it was logical.”

“God I knew you were a dumbass when it comes to Mickey but this is a whole new level.”

“Hey, I came back didn’t I?” Ian argued. The smile fell of Lip’s face, replaced with something much more thoughtful. The change in tone made him shiver, like the temperature had suddenly dropped ten degrees.

“Why did you?” Lip asked quietly. “I mean even if you didn’t find Mickey you still would have been free.”

“Same reason I came back the first time,” Ian muttered, still trying to convince himself that he made the right choice. “You guys, stability or whatever. Even if it’s jail its gotta be better than being on the run in a foreign country, right?”

Lip nodded. “Glad you came back,” he said, smiling at Ian in his big-brother way. The way that made Ian feel like a kid again, looking up to Lip to tell him anything and everything.

“Me too.” He paused. “I think.”

“Yeah,” Lip laughed, passing him the ice cream once more. “You might rethink that after a few years in prison.”

Ian chuckled and they went quiet, trying to enjoy each other’s company while they could. Fuck he was going to miss this. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to survive years in prison without him—without his family. How he was supposed to spend hundreds of days alone without anybody he loves.

How he was supposed to spend the rest of his life without one person in particular.

Like he was reading his thoughts. Lip asked, “You still love him then?”

“Yeah,” Ian said sadly. “I always will.”

But that didn’t matter because Mickey was _gone, gone, gone._ On a beach somewhere sipping tequila. Ian hoped he wasn’t feeling the way he was—that he had moved on, found happiness. That he’d found the freedom he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
> This chapter contains references to Ian's manic episode in season 8, as well as Monica's death.


	15. Mickey

They were laying side by side in the cramped bed. Mickey was on top of Ian, lazily playing with his hair. He had to admit, he wasn’t a fan of the black hair, and he had told Ian that the second they broke away from their first kiss. Ian just laughed, laying down next to him and pulling him as close to himself as possible. Holding on like he would float away if he let go. Mickey did the same and they laid next to each other for hours, listening to each other breathe and smiling when they caught each others eyes.

“Holy fuck,” Ian blurted out, startling Mickey out of their comfortable silence.

“Okay, man, you’ve gotta stop saying that,” he grumbled. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Sorry, I just…” he trailed off, and Mickey felt him nervously playing with the hem of his jumpsuit.

“You just what?”

“I just can’t believe you’re really here,” he said quietly, like he was admitting something shameful—some secret that should be kept in the dark.

“Well believe it, Gallagher,” he said quietly, wanting to preserve the peace he had missed so much. “There’s no way I’m getting out anytime soon. Not after I escaped the first time.”

Ian went still underneath him, eyes staring straight at the ceiling.

“Ian? You okay?” he asked, bringing his hand up to brush his cheek.

Ian shook his head and still didn’t meet his eyes. Mickey just frowned, waiting for him to do what he always did—he was used to this dance by now, even after going so long without it. He’d go stony and cold, retreating to somewhere deep in his head, then he would get sad, like somebody was taking his heart and squeezing it until it turned to dust. And finally, if Mickey was lucky, he would speak, voicing whatever the fuck was going on in that broken voice of his.

He watched as Ian went through it all, smiling when he turned to look at him and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Why’d you do it, Mickey?” he asked. The smile slipped off Mickey’s face as Ian continued. “You were supposed to be free. Sun all year round, sandals, tequila, all that. Why’d you come back?”

“You know why,” he said shortly. _He knew why._ There’s no fucking way he didn’t know after all this time. Ian was a lot of things but he wasn’t stupid. And he surely wasn’t fucking blind.

Ian shook his head again and Mickey scoffed, pushing himself up against the wall.

“You fuckin’ serious?” Ian didn’t say anything, so he went on, voice rising in pitch as he spoke. “I fuckin’ love you, dumbass! That’s why I risked everything getting my ass thrown back in here! You’re right, I could have stayed in Mexico. I was doing alright there but I wasn’t— Fuck! I wasn’t happy!” he stopped, giving himself a minute to catch his breath. When he could breathe again, he added, “Not without you.”

Ian slowly sat up, easing Mickey’s hands into his own.

“That’s not what I meant, Mick,” he said lowly, and Mickey saw the shame return to his eyes. The same shame that was there at the psych ward, and at the porch, and the jail, and the fucking border. The same shame that made Ian duck his head and blink too much, like he could banish it with a simple gesture. “I guess I just can’t believe that you would do all of that for me. After everything.”  
Mickey tightened his grip on Ian’s hands. “Of course I would,” he said simply. He understood. It wasn’t about him— none of it really was. That was what he held onto to look past Ian’s harsh words and harsher actions. He didn’t fucking like it, but he understood. Just like Ian had understood him, all those years ago, after cutting lies and desperate punches and tragic weddings. Maybe that was the beauty of them—that hurt and betrayal and heartbreak were nothing compared to how safe he felt in Ian’s arms. That no devastating separations could outweigh how much Ian’s face would light up every time they came back together.

Ian must have come to the same conclusion because his face softened and he tilted his head to catch him in a short kiss, smiling into his lips.

He pulled back just as Mickey tried to deepen it, bringing his hands up to Mickeys face, tracing small circles with his thumbs.

Mickey bristled under his gaze, but Ian held him in place. He dragged his eyes over every inch of his face, like he was just now seeing Mickey for the first time.

“You’re freaking me out man, what the fuck are you doing?” he said when he finally couldn’t take it anymore. Ian just smiled, leaning forward to kiss him again.

“I love you too, Mickey,” he whispered, pulling away ever so slightly, so their foreheads were pressed together. “So much.”

“I know,” Mickey muttered, putting his hands on top of Ian’s and gently removing them from his face. “You think I would come back if I didn’t?”

Ian chuckled and dragged Mickey back down onto the bed. “I love you,” he said again.

“Yeah, I know…” Mickey said slowly, shifting them again so that his arms were wrapped around Ian’s waist and his face was in his chest. “You just said that.”

“I feel like I should have said it sooner,” he said, and Mickey heard that familiar guilt returning to his voice. “Not just when I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Yeah… probably,” Mickey agreed with a laugh, earning a light shove from Ian.

“Shut the fuck up,” he chuckled, and Mickey smiled at the way the guilt drained from his voice, loving that he knew how to make that happen. He didn’t think he’d ever known anyone the way he knew Ian. He knew he doesn’t want to. “Not like you were running around saying it all the time.”

“Whatever, Gallagher,” he said as he settled deeper into Ian’s chest. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Ian wrapped his arms around him, pulling him as close as he could. Just as Mickey was falling asleep, Ian murmured, “Thanks for coming back, Mick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, half-heartedly waving Ian off. “Somebody had to keep you from being somebody’s bitch in here.”

Ian chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m serious, Mick. Thanks.”

Mickey just hummed quietly as he drifted off, reveling in the feeling of Ian’s arms around him and his breath tickling the top of his head.


	16. Ian

“How long do you think it’ll be?”

Mickey shifted on top of him, tilting his head so he could look up at him. “I don’t know man,” he said, searching Ian’s face in the dark. “My sentence is supposed to be five years right?”

Ian nodded. Four years without Mickey. Four years of phone calls and glass partitions and biting cold. He pulled Mickey closer, taking deep breaths as he pressed his nose into his hair.

“I’m gonna miss you, Mick,” he whispered.

“You’ll be fine,” Mickey muttered. “You’ve survived without me before—you’ll be just fine doing it again.”

Ian was silent for a minute. Mickey was right. He survived, and he would do it again. But—

“Just because I survived doesn’t mean I was _happy,_ ” he said. “I— I tried and I _was_. I was happy with my job and my family but… something was missing.”

Mickey turned his head to look at him again, small smile appearing on his face. “What’s that Gallagher?”

“You, dumbass,” he smiled back at Mickey, focusing on his eyes twinkling in the dark light of the cell. “I was missing you.”

Mickey smiled even bigger and leaned up to kiss him, ignoring the awkward angle.

“I want you to be happy,” he said as he broke away. “Just…”

“Just not _too_ happy?” Ian teased, raising his eyebrows and tickling him through his tank top.

Mickey rolled his eyes, swatting his hands away. “Just don’t forget about me,” he said quietly and Ian’s heart broke inside his chest.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I never did, you know? Not planning on starting now.”

He felt Mickey nod and hoped he understood what he meant. He missed Mickey every day that he spent without him and he was sure that would be true for the rest of his life.

“I’m tired of this,” Mickey whispered. “Tired of being without you.”

“Me too, Mick.”


	17. Mickey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

“Hey” Somebody tapped him on the arm and he startled, looking shakily around the dingy bar he had found himself in.

“You can’t stay here, man,” the bartender said, sounding exasperated already.

“Dude,” Mickey snapped, matching his annoyance. “Calm the fuck down, it’s not even that late.”

The bartender scoffed, gesturing sarcastically to the clock on the wall behind him.

_3:00 am._

Shit.

“Alright man,” Mickey said, peeling himself off the barstool he’d been in for the past six hours, apparently. “Fuck you, too.”

He flipped the bartender off as he headed out into the street, trying to quell the panic building up in his stomach.

Where the fuck was he supposed to go now?

He ran through his options in his head, trying to think clearly through the haze a night of shots and cheap beer had caused in his brain.

He could find a hotel—nope, no money.

He could go back to the Milkovich house— he laughed out loud at that idea. No fucking way was he ever sleeping in that house again.

This left him with his last two options. Find a park bench, or return to the Gallagher house. Return to the Gallagher house where Ian was with his broken promises and bullshit apologies and—

And half of his fucking heart.

No way was he going back there either.

He resolved himself to walking around until he found a relatively warm place to sleep, feeling like a scared thirteen year old again, running from Terry and curling up in a ball under the El. He would always eventually return home, once he got too cold or too hungry, but fuck if he couldn’t survive one night on the streets until he figured out something better.

Except he wasn’t thirteen, and he wasn’t running from his monster of a father. He was twenty-six running from the love of his life. His heart ached and he wanted nothing more than to return home to Ian. To forget the last twelve hours and curl up next to him in their bed and fall asleep with Ian’s arms around him.

But the last twelve hours _did_ happen and he could barely stand to think about Ian, much less look at him. Much less forgive him. Not yet.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would find his way home eventually, that he would fall right back into Ian’s arms. But not tonight. His wounds were too fresh and his eyes were too wet for that to end well.

As he was walking the near-empty streets he saw something that caught his eye. Another bar, but unlike the last one this wasn’t for depressed businessmen and seventy-five year old drunks. The lights were still on and Mickey could hear the music all the way from across the street.

The _BOYS BOYS BOYS_ sign bore into his head, not helping his growing headache. But what the hell, he figured, anything was better than some hard park bench. Anything was better than seeing Ian.

He steeled himself and walked into the club. His eyes immediately caught on a red-head sitting at the end of the bar.

An hour later he found himself in a warm bed, sleeping next to some guy he couldn’t even name. Anything’s better than the alternative, he reminded himself over and over again. Anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> This chapter contains vague references to Terry's abuse.


	18. Ian

“Are you happy?”

“God, Gallagher” Mickey groaned as he flipped onto his back and closed his eyes. “You and your stupid fucking questions.”

Ian propped himself up on his elbows to look at him, drinking in everything about him. He loved seeing Mickey back in their bed where he belongs. He didn’t think he could ever get tired of the sight. Mickey cracked an eye open and raised an eyebrow when he caught him staring. “Everything doesn’t have to be a fucking conversation you know.”

“I know,” Ian said, pushing himself up on his knees. “I feel like this should be, though.”

Mickey opened his eyes all the way. “Is there no such thing as sleeping after sex anymore?”

“Fuck off, we just got _engaged_ and you want to go to sleep?”

“Yes!” he said dramatically, bringing a hand up to cover his eyes. “I’m fucking tired!”

Ian grabbed Mickeys shoulders and hauled him up, ignoring his protests. “Just answer the question and I’ll let you sleep.”

Mickey just stared at him for a few seconds, like he was waiting for Ian to say he was kidding. When Ian just stared right back he sighed.

“Of course I’m fucking happy,” he said sincerely as the corners of his mouth turned. When Ian still didn’t say anything, he added, a little too quickly, “Why? Are you?”

Ian’s eyes widened when he realized what Mickey meant by that.

Mickey went on, speaking in a low, monotonous voice and keeping his eyes carefully trained at a spot just above Ians ear. “I mean if I’m just some kind of second choice here… Or— or if you don’t actually want to—”

“Fuck!” Ian roughly grabbed Mickey’s hands with both of his, causing Mickey to snap his eyes back to his. “I’m so fucking happy, Mick. Sometimes I—“

He was cut off by Mickey retracting his hands. “Then why do you always ask me shit like that? _Why’d you come back? How do you know you love me? Are you happy?”_ Ian was about to speak, but Mickey held up a hand, so he shut his mouth, letting Mickey get the rest of his rant out without even taking a breath. “I mean, fuck, Ian! What more do you want me to do? I _love_ you, asshole. And you _say_ you love me so why does it always seem like you’re looking for an excuse to fucking leave!?”

“I don’t know!” Fuck, this wasn’t the way he meant for this to go. But his brain just couldn’t seem to stop defaulting to his _I’m not worthy of love bullshit_. “I guess it just doesn’t make sense to me sometimes.”

Mickey still looked angry, and he was looking everywhere but Ian, but he still asked, in a dangerously calm voice, “What doesn’t make sense sometimes?”

“You. Us,” Ian blurted out, causing Mickeys face to fall into something even sadder than it had been. “Wait, fuck! Not _us_ us. I mean— fuck!”

“What the fuck are you trying to say, Gallagher?” Mickey growled. “You don’t think we make sense?”

“No, Mickey that’s not what I meant! It’s not you! It was never _you_ ,” _Shit._ He was ruining everything, again.How could he possibly explain everything that’s going on in his head to Mickey without sounding like he was making up excuses? How could he even say, _I think you deserve better_ or _you should have left when you could_ or _you’re going to regret this eventually_ without sounding more pathetic than he already feels? God, why couldn’t he just _accept_ this? Mickey loved him and wanted to be with him. Shouldn’t that be all he needs? Why is nothing ever enough? Why is everything too much?

“Is this about your mom?” Mickey asked, halting his thoughts in their tracks.

“I—“ _What? “_ What?”

“Your mom,” Mickey repeated. “This is still about her isn’t it? All the fucked up shit she put in your head. Everything they said about you and her.”

 _Is it? Maybe. Probably._ “Yeah.”

“Ian, you’re not your fucking Mom any more than I’m my shithead dad.” Ian recoiled at the mention of Terry. How could Mickey, _his_ Mickey, ever be like him?

“You’re nothing like your dad,” Ian said, and something darkened in Mickey’s eyes before he nodded.

“Exactly,” he said firmly, like he was trying to convince himself too. “And you’re nothing like your mom.”

“It’s different, Mick.” They shared the same disease for fucks sake. They made the same mistakes and hurt the same people and fucked their respective lives up over and over and over. He just went to fucking prison because of it. Why was Mickey lying to him?

“Fine, whatever,” Mickey flopped back on the bed, laying his hands behind his head so he could keep watching Ian. “I never met her so what do I know?”

Ian nodded slowly, wondering where the hell he was going with this. Was he agreeing with him? He thought that’s what he wanted but hearing him actually admit it was somehow worse than the fighting.

“But I don’t really care,” he went on, speaking much more casually than the occasion called for. “I’m in this, Ian. Crazy shit and all.”

 _What if I don’t want you to be?_ he almost asked. Years ago he would have. He would have snapped at Mickey, telling him he doesn’t need somebody to be ‘in this’ with him. Tell him to just _fuck off_ and leave him to his dark rooms and goosebumps.

But they weren’t kids anymore. Their days of fist fights and miscommunications and pain upon pain upon pain were over. And Ian had no interest in single-handedly dragging them back to the dark ages. He flopped on the bed beside Mickey, mirroring his position and staring up at the ceiling.

Mickey loved him. He loved Mickey. That was the truth. The _one_ truth that remained through it all. Even when Mickey was married and when Ian couldn’t understand his own thoughts and when they were broken up and even a whole country apart. Mickey loved him. He loved Mickey.

“Okay.”

Mickey turned to look at him, brow slightly furrowed. “Okay?”

Ian looked back at him, staring at the man he knew was the love of his life. “Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “ _Okay_. I still think you must be crazier than me to want to go through with this but…” he sighed, begging his thoughts to quiet for just one moment. When he looked in Mickey’s eyes they did. “Okay.”

Mickey smiled back at him, in that special way that only people in love do, and Ian couldn’t help but reach over and kiss it right off his lips.

“I want you, Mick. I want _this_. I promise.” he muttered into Mickeys lips as he brought his hand up to stroke his cheek. “I love you, you know?

“Yeah, I know,” he said. And despite the ever-present voices screaming in his own head telling him that this wasn’t real—that he didn’t deserve this and that he should push Mickey away before this can go any further, he believed him. Maybe he could be better than her. Maybe he could be happy. And if anybody was going to make that happen, it was the man in his arms.


	19. Mickey

The dim light of the moon cast the entire motel room room in a soft shade of pink. Mickey glanced over at Ian, smiling when he saw that he was bathed in that same light. Fuck, he looked beautiful.

Ian lazily turned his head to look at him, smiling when he saw that Mickey was already staring at him with his mouth slightly agape.

“What?” he asked, inching his head closer to Mickey’s so that their noses were almost touching.

“Nothing,” Mickey lied. He closed the distance between the two of them, taking his sweet time to let the blush fade from his cheeks. When they broke apart Ian was still smiling at him, looking just as dopey as the day they first met.

“God, Gallagher, are you ever gonna wipe that stupid look of your face?”

“What?” Ian asked in mock offense. “I’m not allowed to look happy around my _husband?”_ He emphasized the last word by bringing Mickeys hand up to his mouth and kissing his ring. Usually Mickey would roll his eyes at the gesture but today he just let him, feeling his lips creep up in a matching smile.

“Husband, huh? He around here? Might have to beat his ass.”

“Yeah, actually. You might know him. He’s about yay high…” Ian brought his free hand up a few inches above the covers. “Super feisty—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey cut him off by shoving him and Ian started laughing so hard that he could barely breathe.

“It wasn’t that funny, asshole,” he said weakly through his own involuntary giggles. “You’re such a fucking dick!”

“Yeah…” Ian turned his body to completely face him, still breathing heavily from his laughing fit. “You’re kinda stuck with me, though.”

Mickey let his words sink in and turned to lay on his side too. “I guess I am.”

Ian’s face fell slightly, and for a second Mickey was worried they were gonna have a repeat of the night they got engaged. But then his face broke into a blinding smile and he grabbed Mickey’s face and kissed him again.

“Fuck, I love you,” Mickey said breathlessly when Ian pulled back.

Ian smiled at him like he’d just given him the world with those three words. “I love you too, Mick.”

They settled back into their position, with their arms wrapped around each others shoulders and their hands brushing.

“I can’t wait, you know?” Ian said towards the ceiling.

“For what?” Mickey asked, so caught up in his euphoria that he could barely think straight.

“All of it,” Ian answered simply. “Everything.”

Mickey didn’t ask him what he meant. He understood. He couldn’t wait for the rest of their lives. Sleepy mornings and late nights, soft kisses and fights. All of it. Everything they finally got to have together.

“Me either.”


End file.
